


Breaking My Goddamn Heart

by IamBuckVu, paladin_cleric_mage



Series: As I Live And Breathe [5]
Category: The OA (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Body Dysphoria, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dissociation, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, Dysphoria, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Recreational Drug Use, Trans, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-16 17:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10575939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamBuckVu/pseuds/IamBuckVu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/paladin_cleric_mage/pseuds/paladin_cleric_mage





	1. Chapter 1

The trip to Phoenix had its ups and downs. It was fun to explore someplace new, but there was an undercurrent the whole trip: Mr. Vu did not want anyone from his work to meet Buck. This became most apparent one evening when the CEO invited the Vu family out to a restaurant for dinner and Buck was left at the motel eating cold pizza as if he didn’t exist.

Buck didn’t want to let it ruin his trip, so he kept trying to find good things to focus on, and he sent upbeat messages to French as much as possible. But Buck was sweaty all the time, tired from lack of sleep, the water tasted like chlorine, and he was feeling cut off.

Roaming around downtown Phoenix one day with his mom, they went into a boutique, and while Mrs. Vu examined the silver necklaces, Buck eyed something in the case: a pair of bracelets made from dark leather strands knotted macrame-style around turquoise beads. Each bit of turquoise was misshapen and smooth, polished to perfection in its imperfect form.

They touched Buck right in the corner of his heart that he had reserved for French. The pair of bracelets were perfect in their imperfections. He bought them and slipped them into his bag, and…when he started to feel invisible…he took one out and worried each bead between his thumb and forefinger, thinking of French.

On the drive to French’s house, he clenched the beads in a fist, too worked up to even move. It was taking all of his willpower to retain a facade of composure. Dusk spilled out into the sky behind the evergreens, but Buck stared off the opposite way, into the eastern darkness, steeling himself for whatever lay ahead.

His parents dropped him off. He walked up to French’s door and turned around to wave goodbye, then he waited for them to leave.

Finally alone, he felt fear jolting through him like waves of electricity racking his system. But he couldn’t stop now to face his feelings. He jammed the two bracelets into his jeans pockets and knocked.

He had to know if French was ok.

The knock at the door interrupts French's studying. He’s been high on uppers since this morning when he decided to abandon himself to work and forget the immensity of Saturday night. Everything he learned, everything he missed, is neatly wrapped away. As it should be.

He’s still lost in this state of self-forgetting as he dutifully tosses his pencil down and rises from the kitchen table. Unconsciously he adjusts the collar of his high-neck Nike hoodie, which he wore to hide the bruises along his neck. It worked—or so he thinks. No one made any comments he couldn’t defend.

Each second Buck waits at the front door feels like an eternity. The last words that French had texted were taunting him: _I wish I had died that day I wish I had died that day I wish I had died that day..._

Too swiftly, he unlocks and opens the front door. The object of his desire blinks back at him. Present, pale and if possible, thinner.

When the door flies open and French is standing there, Buck gasps for air. He had unwittingly been holding his breath, and the sight of his Heart standing before him alive and well releases a layer of worry that had been strangling him ever since he turned on his phone.

A flash of bold and beaming happiness runs its course, urging French to lunge forward and hold Buck. Until he realizes he’s been caught.

He steps back, remembering he is an open wound. If he touches Buck it will infect him. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and reinstates a smile, dialed down and tightly controlled. Desperate to convince Buck he’s fine, to contain the shards of soul about to clatter to the ground at their feet.

Buck can’t see this. Buck can’t see him like this. The texts, the bruises, the bloodshot eyes– they don’t exist. What happened Saturday night doesn’t exist, it’s ink on paper that he burned to ash. He’s clean now, and clings to this false promise.

If only Buck can cling to it, too.

"Hey! I didn’t expect to see you so soon. How was your trip?"

French is filled with clouds. For a moment, they break, and sunshine pours out of him. Buck basks in its warmth. It is the purest feeling he knows, but it is over too soon, and the storm gathers within French darker than before. He is closing himself off…Buck can see it in his eyes, in his body language, in the way he shifts to protect himself.

He is backing away, stuffing his hands in his pockets, removing himself.

It wasn’t even an hour ago that the texts came through, and now that French is confirmed to not be dead, Buck’s mind is free to find other worries to latch onto.

 _Youre so much irettyied than her_  
_You’re so much prettier than her_  
_Youre so much irettyied than her_  
_You’re so much prettier than her_  
_Youre so much irettyied than her_  
_You’re so much prettier than her_

The coupled refrain becomes saturated with meaning. _Her_. _**Her**_. The horror of that pronoun stabs Buck unexpectedly. But he should have been prepared…right? I mean…what did he expect? That he would be loved? Accepted? For who he is?

That dream dies, turning into something black and oozing inside of his chest. He was a fool to think that…of all people…he would be able to share a bit of life with French. At least he never told him he loves him. Not to his face, anyways. His hand goes reflexively to touch the bracelets through his pocket and he is overcome with shame at his sentimentality.

How could he have ever hoped to be happy?

French doesn’t want him. Or, rather, French would want him… _if only he was a girl._

But none of that matters. Buck couldn’t change any of that. What he could do was be a friend. That’s what French had always said he wanted: a friend. Any half-witted thoughts that slipped out when French was inebriated or falling asleep didn’t matter. French had defined their relationship, time and again, in the light of day, and Buck was a fool to have hoped for anything more.

So.

Friends.

They are friends.

And his friend needs him.

Swallowing his fear, willing himself not to cry, Buck stays put, awaiting an invitation. "Can I come in?"

French realizes: something is wrong; he did something wrong.

His fake smile falters and his heart gallops, heavy. Dangerous. Shaking the foundation of the lie he is desperate to sell. In his gut French knows he cannot hide the truth. Buck sees it already; his eyes shimmer with emotion, palpable. In them is a stark reflection of French’s truth. He is a fucking disaster.

No he’s not. He’s fine, and this isn’t happening. Buck doesn’t need to worry. So why does it seem like he’s shaking apart? Is it the shock of French’s physical state? Red eyes, bruised skin, split and scabbed knuckles? No, those things are hidden. It has to be something else. What does Buck know that French doesn’t?

The texts.

French vaguely recollects holding his phone outside a gold bathroom, staring at a girl. If he texted Buck, what did he say? That he missed the smooth sound of his voice, the contour of his two thin hands? The beauty of his smile, his strength? That he wanted nothing but Buck, beside him, forever.

Or did he tell Buck what happened Saturday night? French can’t imagine what it would look like in inebriated writing, can’t comprehend the horror it would inflict in Buck’s little heart. The galloping of his own heart is louder than his thoughts, so hard his chest hurts.

It’s his worst fear, actualized. Becoming what he hates and upsetting his only friend.

He doesn’t want to lose Buck. The boy’s presence keeps him breathing, makes him feel like he isn’t a walking disease. French doesn’t deserve him, but can’t turn him away. This moment, Buck coming home to him, is all he wanted. Clearly Buck wanted it too. He just didn’t expect to see French like this.

French has to make it okay.

"Yeah, come in! I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just excited to see you."

He moves aside to let Buck in and shuts the door behind them. Then he invites him into the living room and sits on the worn couch. With a soft grin he motions for Buck to join him.

"Everyone’s upstairs, so we have all the space and time to talk. Tell me, how was it?"

French leads the way inside. As he moves, closing the door, gesturing for Buck to join him on the couch, his knuckles become visible.

Buck drops into the seat next to his friend and picks up his hand. Buck raises it up to get a better look, holding it gentle but firm. He pushes French’s cuff back with one hand, his slender fingers of the other curled up against French’s palm so that the bruising on his knuckles is unmistakable.

What resolve he had not to cry is breaking down fast. Eyes welling up with tears, he looks from the injury up into French’s deep eyes.

There is more pain there. Worse pain.

Buck doesn’t even know how to form words. His heart is ripping in two as his thoughts race, fearful of what could have happened to French. Was he attacked? Was he ok? Did he do this to himself?

Buck can’t speak. If he speaks, he will break down crying. Instead he keeps French’s hand tucked within his own and he searches French’s face, desperate to know what happened, willing his friend to speak.

Then he sees it: more bruises on French’s neck. And it’s the tipping point. He can’t keep it in anymore. He starts to cry, tears falling, dripping down his face, landing on French’s wounded hand.

But even so, he does not waver. He is staring into French’s eyes, questioning, begging his friend to speak.

Buck’s touch lights him on fire. He winces from the pressure of gentle fingers on fractured bone. Every nerve that runs up his arm, races across his chest and trips down his spine is hot with shame. His cheeks flush with guilt. He hasn’t only been caught. He hasn’t only witnessed his worst fear manifest itself.

He has destroyed an angel.

Pleadingly, he searches Buck’s eyes, hoping to find the words that will make this right. There are only tears. French has caused them.

The pain of knowing this is incomprehensible. He’s gouged out, paralyzed. This was not worth an ounce of the escape he sought in semi-consciousness, intoxication. As Buck examines him– first his knuckles, then his neck, and finally his eyes– French’s head spins. How could he have been so stupid?

The damage he incited Saturday night had casualties. One sits before him, clasping his hand as if holding it could pull French up from underwater, where he’s swallowed the articulation of his own pain. It fills his lungs. He’s drowning and the only way to survive it is to pretend there’s no water. Which is easy, because there isn’t any. There’s poison instead. Causing him to decay from the inside out. Infecting others. Making Buck cry, and he can’t fix this. A sinking ship cannot be saved by ignoring the fact that it is going under.

He has to tell the truth.

"The night you told me you were leaving, I was invited to a party. I didn’t think I’d go, but by Saturday I was so lonely without you. The party seemed better than a night alone, stuck with my own thoughts. I figured maybe I could get my brain to shut up for a little while, forget about stuff that’s been on my mind." His breath hitches. He doesn’t want to say this.

He has to say it.

"A couple teammates took me upstairs to blow some Xanax. They wanted me to relax so I would drink. They thought it was funny, you know? A challenge, because I’ve never been drunk. I’ve never even had a drink until Saturday night."

His embarrassment about the next part is clear. French hopes his honesty will encourage Buck to disclose the twisted words and honest thoughts he poured into the ether that night. He wants to know how deep the knife plunged, which way it twisted. "I know I sent you texts, but I don’t remember what they say. I know I was with some girl I’m not even attracted to. I know that I wasn’t in control, and I hated it. The whole night, I hated how I felt, and I just kept missing you."

He wants to say more, but he’s shaking.

Buck sees that French is too numb to feel his own pain, so with each memory he forms into words, Buck moves into the space created, filling it with comprehension, with meaning, with feeling. French’s words are footprints leading into an abyss, and Buck follows close behind, tethered to his Heart, weighed down by the depths of darkness that lay inside.

A joke. French was with people who thought his life was a joke. Buck’s breathing hitches up, his mouth is open, he is clinging to French’s hand while he speaks. They treated him like a joke. A challenge. A plaything. Buck feels his soul rendering in two at the injustice of it, his chest welling up inside of him, threatening to explode. They treated him like nothing. Like he was nothing. He was everything to Buck, and they treated him like trash, and Buck can’t stop reeling from the horror of that injustice.

His French. His Heart. Broken.

Buck is pissed. His neck gets red all the way up to his ears as he thinks of the faces of the kids on the lacrosse team. He is breathing through his nostrils, rubbing French’s hand with his thumb, imagining them laughing, imaging them making bets on French like he was just some piece of ass.

Buck is doing everything he can to keep his shit together. He doesn’t want to break down crying. That’s not what French needs. French needs him to be strong. French needs him to be reassuring. Buck lifts up one hand, wanting to cup French’s troubled face, wanting to give him something comforting to feel, then he stops midair, lets his hand drop into his lap.

Does French even want Buck to be here? Does he even want his comfort, his touch? He just showed up, unannounced, intruding on his evening. Buck is confused and hurt and torn and suddenly very scared. The last thing French needs is to have one more person pushing their will onto him. Buck looks around the room like a caged bird, glancing at the floor, wondering where he belongs.

He is feeling it all, all of the hurt that French is too numb to feel, and it’s making his heart implode. He doesn’t know what to do. He looks again into French’s face and decides: _Fuck it. If I can’t trust my gut, then I can’t trust anything at all._

Buck lunges forward, wrapping his arms around French’s shoulders, squeezing him in a hug. He holds him tight, his body pressed flush against French’s torso, his cheek on French’s neck, his lips inches away from his ear, and mutters over and over and over: "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…"

And, with his face obscured, he allows himself to weep.

French notices that Buck studies him closely, tears on pause. French trembles from the rush that admitting the truth provides. He’s only admitted part of it, though. There is so much more. Now that he has started speaking he wants to let it out, but he’s not sure how. And suddenly Buck doesn’t seem receptive to it.

Is he angry? That would make the most sense– French ran out the minute he was gone, sniffed drugs, got wasted, almost fornicated with another girl. No, not another girl. A girl. Because Buck isn’t one. He’s a boy and they’re friends, so why should French worry about jealousy or hurt feelings in such an intimate regard?

He’s close to asking questions to break the tense silence. What did the texts say? How badly did French scare him? Does Buck think of him differently now? His pride and need for control scream in chorus: he has to find out.

Then there’s no time to speak. Buck is weeping again. It’s no longer tragically composed, accompanied by soft touch. It’s messy, a thin body rushed and pressed against his, arms around shoulders, cheek to skin.

How? How, after what French has told him, could this possibly be Buck’s reaction? He expected disappointment, interrogation, maybe for Buck to get up and walk out of his life forever. French wouldn’t have blamed him. It would have been easier to understand.

Nothing could have prepared him for this.

He wants to resist. It’s frightening, his innermost desires materializing when he doesn’t deserve a single good thing. Years of self-destruction were accomplished in one night. A beautiful boy was subsequently obliterated in the wake of it. After this, why would the universe allow French safety, layered over the reality of all his manifested fears?

He doesn’t deserve it, no. But he needs it more than air.

One arm wraps clean around Buck’s waist as the other shifts matchstick legs into his lap. French pulls the boy against him so tight with both arms now there’s hardly space to breathe. Moments ago he was drowning in himself. Now he is drowning in relief, sensation, love.

Tears touch his skin, and he hears the whispered words _I’m sorry_. What is Buck sorry for? He is perfect. French holds him harder.

"I missed you so goddamn much."

The relief that comes when French embraces him is immeasurable. Buck feels reassured, reaffirmed. He presses himself into French as if his body is Buck’s own, cheek rubbing against him, arms grasping, one hand at the base of French’s neck, yearning to feel…closer… He can’t get close enough.

Nestled into French’s lap, bodies flush, he is aching, but he feels safe. He feels belonging. He feels wanted. And when French speaks– _I missed you so goddamn much_ –the rush of emotion is a deluge he’d be damned to try and bottle up. It pours out of him. He is crying, sobbing now, body shaking, needing French like a lifeline.

As French holds him, he sobs, his body shaking rhythmically with the release of emotion. There are no thoughts in Buck’s head. Just pure feeling.

The sadness eventually runs its course. He sniffles, becoming self conscious.

Buck leans back just enough so that French would loosen his grip but not think he was pulling away. He laughs a little at himself while wiping his cheeks when he sees French’s face is dry. On a lark, he reaches over and gently wipes his tears on French, smearing them beneath his eye socket, trailing the wetness down his cheeks, letting his hand linger up the line of his jaw. With the softest of smiles, Buck looks away, embarrassed, as the words tumble out of his mouth.

"There. I’ve cried enough for the both of us."

Then, sheepishly, he looks back into French’s face, filled with hope and pain and love. Here, in his arms, is where he wants to be. And he’s terrified that French will push him away.

The sheer amount of emotion Buck releases terrifies him. French not only destroyed an angel, but broke him beyond resurrection. He holds Buck fast, rocking slightly, wishing he could take away the boy’s pain, erase the fact that he caused it.

He has it twisted, though. Buck isn’t crying because French hurt him. He’s crying for French, feeling the hurt he can’t access, won’t let himself near. It’s obvious when Buck pulls back and streaks saltwater down his cheek. _I’ve cried enough for the both of us._ Because French can’t.

He almost did that night. Before a violent scream tore out of him, shredded him like paper.

But he’s better now. Glued together by willpower and Adderall, two hands on the waist of a beautiful… _boy_. The hand of a boy lingers against his jawline. As if they were about to kiss. They’re certainly close enough. Does he want that? Does Buck? It isn’t like the fantasy hasn’t stolen into his mind. Saturday night thoughts of Buck stole his mind away completely. This brings him back to paranoid curiosity about the texts.

Still he’s too prideful to outright ask, much like he’s too stubborn to admit that liking a boy is okay. For him it isn’t. Though he believes this, he doesn’t push Buck away. Instead he lets pale fingers brush against his brown skin, lets a hundred feathery pounds rest on his thighs. He lets it happen because he knows Buck needs it. Because he needs it. All the while reassuring himself with false confidence that the physical attraction is simply because Buck’s body looks like a girl’s.

This is intimacy, though. True intimacy, which French has never known. As if he imprinted on Buck during their experience with OA. Rather, that life has dented their souls in exactly the right places, so they mold together perfectly. Buck is solid, hopeful, patient. French is motivated, decisive. Where one is weak, the other is strong. That’s what makes them such good friends.

That’s why French quietly wishes they were more.

Does Buck wish that, too? Is that why the idea of him getting tragically fucked up hurt? Or, as French suspects, was there more to that night? "Listen, I’m sorry if I scared you. I didn’t mean to. It’s just… I wasn’t okay that night, but I am now. Alright? You don’t have to worry, you don’t have to cry for me anymore. Whatever those texts said and how I look don’t matter. I’m here with you now, and I’m fine."

French didn’t push him away. If anything it seemed a brief moment of longing fluttered between them.

Impossible. That’s what Buck had been telling himself. And yet? He becomes aware of where he is, as if the last few minutes had happened to someone else and he was just now catching up. French had pulled him into his lap, had held him while he cried, had not flinched when he touched his face, and- even now- Buck could sense that he wanted him here. French wanted him here.

That reassurance was all Buck needed.

He listens to French speak, smiles at his words, then curls comfortably into his arms. Buck leans forward, the pressure of his small body pushing into his friend’s so that he can maneuver to get the phone out of his back pocket. This whole time he’s speaking: "You know, you do this thing when you’re being brave: your jaw clenches and you get this little dimple." He looks briefly at French and touches him lightly where the dimple forms, "And you say these amazing things about how everything is going to be alright. And, in your eyes, I can see you really believe it, you really are trying to prove to yourself that you will be ok, that you can make everything ok."

At this point he has the phone out. He’s snuggling back into French’s lap, cheek against chest, allowing French to have the privacy of whatever expression he wants on his face.

"But your eyes get red, like you’re scared, like you can’t afford to not believe in yourself, like you’re afraid believing in yourself is just this act, like everything will come crashing down if you don’t hold it together. But you try to hold it together, anyways. You would kill yourself just trying to make things better for the people you care about. That’s one of the things I love about you."

Without any more words, Buck unlocks his phone, opens up his chat history, and hands his phone to French. Their conversation is the most recent in his message history. Then Buck slides his arms around French in a gentle hug, shifting his hips to get comfortable on French’s lap, nuzzling his face against his friend’s chest.

French watches in awe as Buck shifts and speaks. How can someone be so comfortable melding into another? Letting their emotions and invisible self be seen? French told Buck the truth, but he couldn’t do much other than show him he’d missed him through touch. Buck shows him through touch, words, the incredible ability to read French in the most vulnerable moments and call him out on what he can’t articulate but knows is there.

His intense need to make things right– to control external conditions so his internal state will settle– is what drives him. Buck sees it. He also sees that French is afraid it’s an act, because it is one. French just didn’t realize it was that obvious.

He has to try harder. Buck is his only safety, the miracle he needs. Which makes him a total liability. If French fully lets down his walls, what will come out? Drinking broke down walls, releasing a flood of rage and self-hate. Buck handled it, but only the parts he was there to witness. Texts, a broken body, and an honest half-explanation. What if he had been there Saturday night– the way it was? Would he have handled it then? And if French loses control again, cracks open and spills loose, will Buck stay? Will he still be a solid lifeline, a place to cast the anchor?

_You would kill yourself just trying to make things better…That’s one of the things I love about you._

Buck loves that he would kill himself for others. Loves? Why is he mentioning this? Does it have to do with the texts? He takes the phone carefully, like the messages are another grenade. This time the pin isn’t between his teeth. It’s in his lap, gently holding him as if bracing them both for impact.

He reads the texts.

The detonation is a silent black and white film. Horror lights him like a match, his stomach tightens. His breathing is shallow as his heart gallops again, knocks the wind from him with a heavy kick to the gut. There is a clear contrast marking the moment of departure from his carefully constructed character into his actual self. A self he never wanted to cross paths with, much less expose to a friend.

Petrified, he rereads the texts over and over and over. It’s all he can do, he can’t breathe. What made him say these things? He remembers missing Buck, wishing he had been there. He knows Buck is his only friend. But the rest?

  
_Imaorry hou ever belived in me_  
_Why aren’t youjere I need yoj_  
_I wish I had died that day._

At his first party freshman year, one of the varsity upperclassmen tried to talk him into drinking. “A drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.” It was supposed to make French feel more human– everyone did crazy shit when they were fucked up. Instead, it strengthened his resolve to never drink. He was afraid of the shadows that crept through his mind, leaving tracks in the dust of rooms he’d left locked up.

_I wish I had died that day._

Did he? Were those his honest thoughts? He had texted this to Buck before losing his phone at a party, punching a wall until his skin split, screaming his throat raw. Before going home to wash vomit and dried blood off his bruised, cut, and hickey covered body. He had woken up sore in so many places and went directly to the pills. Intent on burying every thought, failure, and fear. He had to run from himself and the reality of it all.

Of course he meant it.

This profoundly disturbs him. He sets the phone down on Buck’s lap numbly, not looking. His eyes are dark, the sun has set. But it’s okay. French would kill himself to make it better for others.

Casually he squeezes Buck’s side, injecting subtle laughter into his voice.

"Guess if I ever go to a party again I have to bring you, right? Seriously, though. I’m glad that’s over, and I’m sorry if I scared you. Thank you for coming over tonight."

French’s body is limp. He is barely speaking, barely moving. Buck is glad he is not looking in French’s face; he knows his friend would just put up masks. He understands: French can only give what he can give.

And that’s ok.

Buck made up his mind: he wouldn’t ask anything of French. That’s what loving someone means, right? It wasn’t supposed to be conditional on anything. It was just something inside of you, something you cannot deny, a part of your very essence and soul. That is what French was to Buck. Inexplicably. Irrefutably. He was part of Buck’s life force. He could no sooner stop caring for him than he could stop drawing air. It might kill Buck, loving someone who wouldn’t allow himself to return that affection, but there were worse ways to die.

Buck pulled French’s hand over, held it in his own, examining the hurt flesh. Gently he brushed his cheek against the fingers where the skin was unbroken, where it wouldn’t hurt, cherishing this small breath of connection that he’d been allowed.

He didn’t want to push his _friend_. He wanted to love him with all his heart and breathe his air and share his bed and share his dreams and… but no. He needed to put such sentiments out of his mind. They were selfish.

Gently, Buck kissed a bruise on French’s hand. One more allowance. One more stolen moment. One more thwarted ache. But it just made his heart ache more, made him want to kiss away all French’s tears, if only French would let them fall, if only…

"French?" Buck’s small voice is barely a whisper. He’s not sure if he hears French say yes or if he feels him nod or if French does nothing at all. He finishes his thought all the same. "Please don’t kill yourself. Please don’t die. Please don’t leave me alone."

French is still considering all the points of failure that led up to this moment, this one undeserved miracle: a friend who saw a glint of what’s inside and enveloped it in lovingkindness. As if acceptance could heal wounds, reverse time, invite the truth to rise from deep waters where it hurts the most.

Because it can. He just doesn’t know that. Buck does, and French trusts him. He always has. Buck was strong enough to approach him after dark, tell Steve not to sell at the house anymore, sit beside him and cry while listening to a trauma victim talk. He reassured French he was good and wouldn’t change, and even now when potential for terrible change has been shown, he still believes.

Buck’s belief comes in the delicate form of lips against skin. French is like a rabbit in the presence of a predator. Beautiful, silent, still. On the inside thrumming with an agonizing heartbeat, paralyzed by fear. He feels the contact, registers the suddenness of it all. Buck was gone for what seemed like millennia, yet here they are, skin to skin, French’s heartbeat driving through him hard enough to be heard. Maybe that will suffice as a form of communication, since he cannot return the effortless gesture of a healing kiss.

_Please don’t kill yourself._

Take his own life? Leave Buck alone? He’s never considered it. That’s what makes the texts doubly alarming: French had no idea he felt that way. He would be just as surprised by his own suicide as everybody else.

He imagines Buck in an ill-fitting suit, lips slightly parted as he cries. He imagines Buck going home alone. Forgetting to eat again, asking Steve and Jesse to get him high, dropping out of choir, wasting away. And of course he imagines the devastation it would cause his brothers, his mother. Who would take care of things?

French has to. He’s had to since he was eleven years old. Laundry, feeding himself, finding work at age fourteen. He isn’t proud of what he’s done to make things okay, but things are okay. He’s okay. He isn’t going to kill himself, that’s ridiculous. Selfish. Only cowards take the easy way out.

Unless suicide isn’t easy at all, and meant for high-functioning depressive types who realize in drunken rages that life isn’t designed for them. Who quietly decide on a method and execute it without warning. Drunk words, sober thoughts.

Sober subconscious.

That it crossed Buck’s mind even as a worst-case scenario shatters him. His breath hitches, body trying to regulate itself through chaos. The drug molecules still swimming in his bloodstream exacerbate the difficulty. This isn’t an adrenaline rush, like telling Buck what happened. Adrenaline rushes are short lived and followed by waves of feel-good chemicals. What’s happening now doesn’t feel good, and it won’t ever. It’s a clash of emotions he can’t name, he can’t even feel. But they exist.

French really can’t breathe, his bones quake, peeling back skin. Thoughts are concrete hard and he needs to stand up, pace, talk, suck in air, anything to make this stop. He thinks of the pills upstairs, the ones that will calm him down, but he can’t– he won’t do drugs in Buck’s presence. His safety, his harbor, French owes him an answer. Owes it to him with eye contact, feeling.

As if he could ever express feelings properly.

French slides Buck off his lap, onto the couch. Immediately he’s on his feet, all but sweating this out. The fear of implication– the buried, bolt-locked tombs of truth. "Don’t you ever think for a minute that I would do that to you. Okay? I would never. I love my brothers. I love my mom. I wouldn’t leave them. And I wouldn’t leave you. Suicide is selfish and it’s not an option. It’s not something I’ve ever considered. If those texts made you worry, just remember I was wasn’t me when I wrote them. Okay? Even if things got bad, Buck, I wouldn’t give in. I wouldn’t give in." He repeats this last line, willing himself to believe. The idea of suicide is insane, it’s unlike him.

It’s a seed planted deep in the soil of his mind, to be cultivated and grown by fear.

Yet even when facing his deepest fears, French still remains gentle. He remains resolute, dedicated to his commitments, his principles. Buck sits on the couch, watching French pace, watching him face the enormity of his emotions.

He holds himself together with bits of string and glue…with his willpower…with his fears. They aren’t the best tools, but they’ve been enough, because French has been desperate to make them be enough.

Buck isn’t drawn to French because of the perfect face he presents to the world. He is drawn to this unrelenting hunger to fight, to stay alive. Buck is drawn to it because he holds the same spirit in himself.

They are cut from the same cloth, sewn into different garments.

Buck sits, small and bright and calm, hands in his lap, listening. This is what French needs: to let the poison out of his wounds. This is what he needs: to fall apart a little bit and realize that things will still be ok. This is what he needs: to feel safe.

Buck doesn’t fully realize he’s the reason French is able to face his fears in this moment. His desire for the boy blinds him to the idea that French might desire him, too. The guilt of having a want- the guilt of wanting French- it pushes Buck to denying himself, to fighting against himself. But he knows: he would do anything to help heal ~~his Heart~~ his friend.

So he listens. He absorbs French’s feelings. And he sits, looking into French’s eyes. And he says, "Ok."

The response is so simple it startles French from panic. He’s panting, glasses shrouding wild eyes. After the upheaval of emotions Buck displayed when he saw French is this state, how is his response to this such a concise agreement? How does Buck buy French’s words that easily?

Maybe because they’re true. He doesn’t want to kill himself. So where did the texts come from? What was he feeling Saturday night that made him wish he were dead?

The weight of his failures. How easily he folded after brutalizing himself for years in an effort to succeed, to escape.

It’s okay, though. As long as Buck buys his words and believes in him, French can believe in himself. He’s done with being a mess: drinking, spilling open, staring off the sheer drop cliff of his brain.

What was panic moments ago is transformed into motivation, the tapering patter of his heart a determined snare rather than a death march. Buck has allowed him the space to be honest, cast a safety net to catch him. He managed to catch French with two syllables.

_Ok._

Resolutely, French turns his attention to the physical present. Monday night, feet on the ground, homework laid out in the kitchen. Buck, the imprint of his soul, sitting on the couch. Clear and open, vast as the sky.

French smiles, "Yeah, okay. Okay." He chuckles, "You’re a miracle worker, Buck. I just sorted out so much. But now I need to finish my homework, get some sleep.  
You’re more than welcome to stay. Or, I can drive you home. Whatever you want– I owe you the world for stopping by tonight."

Buck is emotionally exhausted. The turmoil of the last few minutes has raged against his heart, a marathon of worry and feeling.

Everything is still a mess. French opened up a little, but he is still hiding. He is an iceberg, and Buck knows if he sails too close he might puncture his hull and freeze to death, drowning in icy waters. There is no safe place to land, no harbor that French has offered, no lifeline to draw him to shore. Buck is tossed about by choppy waters, riding the current from one moment to the next.

It’s worth it, to be here, close to French, to be pursuing him, to be ministering to his broken heart. It’s worth it, but he can’t live out on dark waters forever. Eventually he will need to find a place to land.

Buck stands, smiles politely, a glow of genuine warmth and comfort exuding from his core.

He shrugs. "What do you want? Do you want me to stay or to go? I did all my work before I left for Phoenix, so I’m free either way."

French wonders: _What_ does _he want?_

An image surfaces, sweet pastel and unlike anything he knows himself to desire. Then, hasn’t he established well enough that he doesn’t know himself at all?

The image is clear: he wakes up next to Buck. Their eyes flutter open to take in the light, take in each other. The room doesn’t feel like his, the colors are soft and warm and there’s no shame in having company, no embarrassment about someone seeing the state of his house. Only heavy hooded eyes, smooth skin, legs entwined because the bed is too small.

In this fantasy, they get ready for school together, spit toothpaste into the same sink. They get the boys on the bus, and Buck is good with them. Patient, kind. They ride into school together, Buck swimming in his high-neck hoodie, curling fingertips around the cuffs.

In this fantasy French doesn’t snort cocaine or eat amphetamines for breakfast.

Would this be possible? When was the last time he had company, a sleepover? When was the last time there was a girl in his bed?

Buck is the only company he’s had in years, and he’s not a girl. But even so, French cannot pretend he doesn’t want Buck to stay, that he doesn’t like him. The boy is small, precious and fucking strong. He deserves better than a confused lacrosse kid who can’t look at himself.

French is looking now, isn’t he? At a desire that can’t be contained. Earlier when he held Buck it was with all the fervor of a drowning man. The fantasy to return to that moment, relive it in a different light, is one he would give anything to actualize.

Would he give up his fear to actualize it? He already knows he can trust Buck, that the boy will let him in. Can French allow the same? Allow himself to have something he wants and knows he needs, even if he doesn’t deserve it?

The smile on Buck’s face, the way his eyes shimmer with abundant hope tells French he needs to try.

"I want you to stay. I just have to make sure my brothers are asleep soon. We can bring the rest of my homework upstairs. You can lay on my bed and listen to music while I finish up. And…" his eyes dart about before settling on Buck’s, insecure about how this will be received, "And I’ll drive us to school in the morning."


	2. Chapter 2

All Buck had hoped for was a little more time. If it didn’t bother French to have company while he studied, maybe Buck could do dishes or watch TV…anything to not leave on such a tense note. All he’d hoped for was to have a chance to breathe, to unwind, to just… _be_ … with French. Without drama. Without tears. Without fears. Just staying…just a little longer.

But he had already intruded on French’s evening enough as it was; he wouldn’t have dreamed of forcing himself onto ~~his Heart~~ _his friend_ , and he knew French would be too polite to decline him if he asked to stay. So he’d hoped French would take pity on him, let him steal a few more moments of belonging before returning to his gilded cage.

But that’s not what French offered.

The object of Buck’s longing stood before him, toiling over an inner monologue. He looked at Buck like… _but no… it was just for a moment… it couldn’t be…_

But then: _there it was again_. He looked at Buck with a glint in his eye, desire in his heart. Then he smiled. French probably didn’t even realize it. It was the smile of someone who is sure of what he wants. And he spoke, firmly, eyes crinkling at the seams. And he asked him to stay…to really, truly stay…unmistakably…to come up to French’s room and stay the night.

You have to understand something about Buck: when you are different your whole life, people can smell it on you, they can sense you don’t belong even before you understand what it is that sets you apart. Buck wasn’t someone others sought after to sit with or invite to parties or work with as a lab partner. He was the ugly duckling, the weirdo, always living on the fringes, always bobbing along on the waves.

And he was content to live as an outsider. He was used to it, used to pushing forward in the face of rejection. His solitude made him stronger, and he believed accounts he read online where people said, after High School, their resiliency became a badge of honor later in life. Even so, he always wondered: what would it feel like to be chosen, to be wanted, to be adored?

Standing in the Sosa’s living room, watching French (was he… _flirting_?), listening to French ask him to stay, sensing French’s excitement mixed with nervousness at the implication of untold depths of intimacy, it sent Buck’s head spinning.

"Ok." Buck blurted out the words without a thought. He was grinning, stupidly, his face come alive with color and joy. "Yes. I’d like that. I’d like to stay."

He was blooming. His heart was exploding with sunshine and sweetness, his limbs relaxing, his insides melting warm to hot to golden radiating joy. His hand went up to his belly as he laughed. He felt waves of warmth and fire radiating from his gut all the way to his fingertips and toes. Something mysterious loosened inside of him, making him giddy, making him bubble over with joy.

He was chosen. French had chosen him. French wanted him.

And Buck wanted him back.

One wall down. The resistance French felt to admit his desire for Buck, dissipated. Completely obliterated by the need to have him. As a friend, as something else. Now that he’s allowed one image to infiltrate his brain, a series of them canter through: _Buck, singing along to music in his car. Him, laughing at himself as he tries to match the pitch. Them, together on the couch watching a movie. Together in bed. Touching._

He’s surprised by his own aptitude for fantasy. He’s even more surprised for allowing Buck to stay. Having someone cry over him brought out the truth. Witnessing Buck’s vulnerability made him okay with being vulnerable. Of course he wanted to tell a truth that would reassure his friend that everything was fine, but he wasn’t going to lie. He didn’t lie. He actually, for once in his futile life, completely opened up.

And now he wants to stay open. Around Buck, at least. He smiles, broad and genuine. Unlike the character he presents to the world. Like his masks are slowly falling off, one after the other, allowing the person underneath to feel light, revel in the warmth of the sun, be revealed. There’s a sense of anxiety that comes with letting someone in. The joy overrides it, though. He’s okay, Buck believes he’s okay. This is a good thing.

"Seriously, Buck. You’re awesome. I’m going to bring my homework upstairs and get my brothers to bed. They’ve been quiet, but that doesn’t mean they’re asleep." He chuckles, taking in the sight of this boy in his living room. Mesmerized. Impressed at himself for letting this happen. "You probably need to call home, right? Will they let you stay? I mean, I have clothes you can wear to bed, and we’ve got an extra toothbrush in the cabinet upstairs. We can stop by and get your book bag before school tomorrow, as long as we wake up early." He thinks of his daily routine. "Are you a good morning person?"

This was uncharted territory for Buck, in every sense, but French was not. French felt familiar. Safe. Buck felt an inexplicable connection to the boy, a bond that gave Buck the courage to open up his body and soul to deeper feeling than his already-too-full-heart had ever dreamed of before. He knew the feelings inside of him would overflow, but it seemed ok, that French would be there to catch whatever might fall, that he might even delight in the over-pouring of Buck’s all-to-earnest heart.

What would it be like to spend the night? Would they actually share a bed? Would he wake up at night in French’s arms and see how he looked by moonlight, by lamplight, under the deepness of dim midnight shadows? The thought of stealing such a private moment of vulnerability from the Object of his Desire, it felt like the promise of tasting honey after wandering hungry through deep woods. He wanted to dive into the thick of things. He wanted to wrap himself around French and never let go.

But he wasn’t really sure how these things were supposed to go.

He was walking into an unknown, but with French by his side it felt ok to be afraid and move forward anyways.

"I can be a morning person. It depends on how much sleep I get." Buck blushed, laughing nervously. His sleep schedule was already so out of whack, plus he was weary from travel and being away. The sweat and sand of the trip still clung to him, and he didn’t love the idea of crawling into clean sheets with the stench of travel lingering in his pores. "Maybe I can take a quick shower while you check on your brothers? Would that be ok?"

Buck shoots his mom off a quick text, asking if he can spend the night. She agrees almost immediately, as if she saw the question coming. Her eagerness registered as odd in his mind, but everything about this evening was odd, so it was just one more bafflement to add to the rest.

Once Buck is alone in the bathroom, fresh clothes–French’s clothes–folded on the toilet seat (he picks them up and buries his face in them and they smell divine), he turns to look at himself in the mirror, in the harsh fluorescent light. This was really happening. He was standing in French’s house, in French’s bathroom, about to strip down and step into French’s shower, then put on French’s clothes and climb into French’s bed, listening to French’s music.

He starts the water and lets it run while he undresses, slipping out of his things like he is leaving his true self behind. The more naked he becomes, the closer he is to facing unpleasant truths about his reality. Standing half-dressed, in his underwear, his binder pressed snug against his chest, he looks up at his reflection in the mirror: body of a girl, heart of a boy.

And, out of nowhere, he feels torn in two.

French’s texts come back to haunt him:

 _Youre so much irettyied than her_  
_You’re so much prettier than her_  
_Youre so much irettyied than her_  
_You’re so much prettier than her_  
_Youre so much irettyied than her_  
_You’re so much prettier than her_

And the unanswered question is like a stake crucifying Buck to his fears: _Would French like him better if he was a girl? Does French only like him in the first place because his body looks like a girls?_

Buck looks away from the mirror. He can’t stand to face his reality, not even to himself. He peels out of his binder and skivvies out of his underwear, shuffling into the shower to hide his pale skin under waves of water. He washes quickly, trying to avoid the sadness welling up inside of him, trying to purify his body, his soul. But he knows that, no matter how hard he tries, perfection is unobtainable.

Unobtainable.

 _Youre so much irettyied than her_  
_You’re so much prettier than her_  
_than her than her than her than her_  
_than her than her than her than her_  
_than her than her than her than her_  
_than her than her than her than her_  
_her her her her her her her her her_  
_her her her her her her her her her_  
_her her her her her her her her her_  
_her her her her her her her her her_  
_her her her her her her her her her_

There’s a knock on the door. Buck snaps back into his head. Someone spoke, but he’s unsure of what was said. How long has he been standing here, water pouring over his body? Why is his body shivering? Is the water cold? He turns off the faucet quickly, speaks around the shower curtain, teeth chattering imperceptibly, "I’m almost done." Then he towels off, anxious that he’s kept French waiting too long, and puts the whole experience out of his mind.

Once he trusts that Carlos and Adrien will fall and stay asleep, French closes their door halfway and goes to say goodnight to his mother. She asks if there’s somebody else here– she heard crying. French says he has a friend over who’s upset and needs company. It’s fabrication, but she doesn’t question further.

His room is small and tidy. French surveys it for any discrepancies. There’s a twin size bed, a dresser, and a cramped desk stacked with books. Clothes and cleats fill the closet so the door won’t close. The bed’s made, it looks inviting. The carpet is clean enough. The dresser– Oh.

On top of the dresser is a clear space he uses to blow Adderall and cocaine most mornings. The spot itself wouldn’t be an issue, except that right now his Altoids tin sits quietly in the space. A treasure chest, telling on itself. French forgot to put it away when he came home from school. He opens the tin to make sure everything is accounted for. Thankfully it is. He has to be more careful. If his brothers ever got into his stash it would be a nightmare; he’d never forgive himself.

Without thought or planning he takes out a Xanax bar and breaks off a section. It’s one of the pills he doesn’t remember buying at the party. In some twisted way he’s glad he did. Sober French wouldn’t have had the gall to get anything other than his usual. The pills from the party are all different doses, different drugs for different purposes. Giving him more control.

Using the tin itself he gently crushes the white pill on the surface of the dresser, scrapes it into a line and blows it. There’s nothing conscious to it, just the motions of impulse. He wants to finish his homework, talk to Buck and fall asleep to his voice. In order for that to happen he needs to be relaxed enough to sleep. Yet the sleeping pills from Steve would be too strong, he’d be knocked out too quickly. This is a compromise.

With the sleeve of his hoodie he brushes off the dresser. Then he changes, hanging the hoodie over his desk chair, pulling on flannel pajama bottoms and a clean white tee.

He sets up his school work on the floor and sits with his back against the side of his bed. It’s easier than trying to fit at the desk, and he’ll be closer to Buck, who will be back at any moment. Eagerly he gets into his work, wanting to finish fast.

A few minutes later the Xanax hits like hot cocoa; warm, thick, sweet. Whatever fear French experienced this weekend is completely erased now, leaving only the physical bruises, scabs, and cuts on his body as evidence. Everything’s good now, though. There’s no need to worry. It’s so different from what he’s used to, but he likes it. Especially after four days of torture without his best friend.

Only friend.

More than friend.

As Buck gets dressed, he realizes: it helps that French is larger than him. The shirt he is borrowing drapes over his otherwise naked torso, covering him, poofing past the small nubs and curves that make his body look like a girl’s.

After getting dressed, he is picking up his jeans and he remembers the bracelets in his pocket that he bought in Phoenix, the bracelets he’d hoped to share with French.

He takes them out, worries the turquoise beads between his thumb and forefinger like he’s been doing all weekend he was away. Up until now, it was something he did to soothe himself, but this time it was like saying a prayer, amping himself up to go out and actually follow through with the feeling that prompted the gift.

He holds them in his fist, the dark leather strands dangling past his pale fingers, and clutches his clothes to his chest, slipping out into the hall on silent feet.

He finds French on the floor of his room, working away. Buck is so silent at first that French doesn’t even notice him. He pauses to enjoy the moment, curls his toes into the hallway carpet, observes French bent over his books. It’s huge that he asked Buck to stay. It means so much that, with what little leeway French has in his life, he wants to share his stolen moments with Buck.

Buck taps his knuckle on the door jam so that he doesn’t startle French when he enters the room, then he pads over, dropping his things in the corner, and curls up on the floor next to French, legs crossed, grinning. "I brought you something from Phoenix. I wasn’t sure it was appropriate at the time, but it…just…felt right." He blushed. He held out his hand, the two bracelets draped across his palm, dark leather knotted around perfectly imperfect turquoise beads. Two bracelets. Matching. And he offered them to French to examine, smiling softly, gingerly, the next statement filled with hope. "I thought we could each wear one. If you want."

The rap at the door catches his attention. Buck enters the room, a small smile on his face. His spiky hair is shiny wet and his body has completely disappeared beneath baggy clothes. French’s clothes. A part of him wants to discover what’s been hidden away. Suddenly Buck is beside him, thighs and shoulders all but brushing. He smells clean, his skin is smooth. Yes, there’s definite attraction there. Attraction of two souls transcended to physicality, born of a blossoming friendship. French’s bloodshot eyes drink in every inch.

A voice in his head pipes up, a melody of doubt with a chorus of self-denial. A reprise of _You only like him because_ … French shuts the voice down, thinking: _Maybe you just like Buck_. Whatever that implies isn’t an issue right now. They’re virtually alone, playing house on a Monday night. French is wrapping up a math assignment. Then he can pack his bag and lay out an outfit for tomorrow.

Buck opens his hand and presents two identical bracelets threaded with asymmetrical turquoise. At once masculine and otherworldly. They’re beautiful, much like the hand they rest upon. Intrigued, French scoops one into his scraped palm to examine.

A gift.

The gravity of sentiment washes over him. As it does, his muscles relax, his entirety flushed with a warmth deeper than drugs alone could provide. Marveling at the sturdy threading, he softly lets a truth escape, "I don’t remember the last time I got a gift." After a minute of fingering the stones he looks over and meets Buck’s eyes. "Of course I want to wear it, this is amazing. Thank you for thinking of me."

It should be endearing that they thought of each other the entire time they were apart. How can it be when their missing manifested in wildly different ways? Buck bought two bracelets, a physical totem to ground them, cement their friendship. Tangible, healthy, safe. French sent awful texts, split skin and got high. The sentiment is beautiful, but it is also sad. He wishes he could give Buck a gift that won’t make him worry and cry.

He offers Buck the bracelet and his right wrist. "Can you tie this on for me?"

Gladly, Buck scoots closer to French, cradles French’s wrist in his lap. Carefully, deliberately, he ties a tight knot so that the bracelet will not fall off French’s wrist but still give him freedom of movement. It looks good on him. Buck smiles. Seeing a piece of himself on French gives him a feeling of fulfillment and acceptance and…completion somehow…like a threshold has been passed, and this bracelet is a sign that their relationship will forever be changed. "I thought of you the whole time I was in Phoenix, but especially when I was lonely. I guess I could have texted with you about it, but I didn’t want to be a burden, and I didn’t really have anything concrete to say, anyways. But whenever I needed to remember I mattered to someone, I took out the bracelets and played with them and thought of you, thought of giving them to you. I had hoped I would give them to you. I wasn’t sure I’d have the guts. I wasn’t sure you’d accept them."

"I’m glad you did."

Words have never rendered French so enraptured, breathless. His eyes flicker from Buck’s nimble fingers working leather to lips that speak of French as if he has a purpose. As if he could ever be anything other than an afterthought.

When Buck is done, he frowns at the cuts and scrapes and bruises as he turns French’s palm over in his small, soft hands, making sure to not make contact with any stretch of skin that might hurt. He licks his lips. He wants to lift French’s hand and kiss every mark and mar, to show French, in some small way, that he is loved, that every single part of him is loved.

He wants to make French feel the same way he makes him feel: like it’s ok to just be real.

But Buck glances over at the open books and purses his lips back together. Homework is more important. He doesn’t want to be a distraction, and any form of kissing would definitely be a distraction, even if it is just on French’s hands. Buck’s eyes travel up French’s arm, flit over to his fresh shirt stretched over solid shoulders, then he lands finally on French’s face, on his strong jaw, the small cleft in his chin, his pink lips, slightly parted. Wounds or no wounds, the thought occurs to Buck that he would like to leave tender kisses across the entire landscape of French’s skin. As soon as the idea enters his mind he blushes, overwhelmed at the thought.

French is the first person he has ever truly wanted to kiss.

And Buck has never been properly kissed, much less touched someone with affection or desire.  He has barely even known desire, but he feels something hot bubbling inside of him, knitting his insides into tangles, making him uncomfortable to be sitting so close.

Timidly, he readies his own right wrist for French to return the gesture, and smiles, wordlessly, hoping he can look into French’s deep eyes without getting too red in the face.

French is never cared for and was never taught to care for himself. Dutifully, he takes care of, forgetting himself behind the protective barriers he has sculpted to survive. These barriers are delicate, crystallized uncried tears. Buck’s presence has been melting them since the start. _No, we won’t change like that_ , followed by a series of actions that lead French to dangerously believe that he might be worth something, if only to one person.  
  
This one person is more than enough– he is abundant. In beauty, value, potential to love. And to be loved. French cannot tolerate Buck thinking he’s insignificant when his heartbeat and touch are healing a boy so broken he doesn’t realize he was ever whole.  
  
Buck deserves to know this, he has to know this.  
  
"You matter so much it’s insane."

The words erupt with such intensity he has to pause. When he continues it is with a dogged persistence to conjure in Buck the feeling that flutters in his own stomach.  
  
"I wish you could see yourself the way I do. You’re a reflection of everything I wish I could be– grounded, optimistic, open. You possess such power, it’s incredible. Yet you walk around like you have no idea you can change the world. Or, at least, you can change me. That’s the reason I talk to you. My teammates don’t know their ass from their elbow, and Steve and Jesse would only bring me down. I’ve been falling through trap doors all my life. I don’t want to be around people who will make me trip. I want to grow, make it out of here. Be somebody who is worth the effort I put in."  
  
"And sure, I act like I already feel good, like I know everything’s going to work out. But I don’t, Buck. I’m terrified. You are too, maybe, but you let yourself feel it, and you keep going. The only time I have that security is when we’re together. You’re good for me. Really good for me."  
  
"When you were gone I thought about you so much it hurt. I didn’t understand why I missed you. At the party I tried to get you out of my head because it scares me how strongly I’m pulled to you. It backfired, obviously, but now I’m starting to understand. It doesn’t matter why I feel this way with you. What matters most is that I’m feeling it. What matters most is you."  
  
At last, with the tenderness of a long time lover, he wraps the leather cord around Buck’s thin wrist and secures it. Then he returns a gesture graciously granted him earlier that night. He brushes Buck’s knuckles with a kiss.

Buck is attentive to every word that drips like honey from French’s lips, savoring his overflow of emotion, bottling up each feeling and tucking it away in the root cellar of his mind. In the coming days, weeks, years, Buck would return to this moment and linger fondly over the way French’s walls had crumbled down, over the way love poured out of him, thick and sweet, at the hope that grew so new and wary in his eyes.

As someone who can see endless possibilities, endless potential for good, it is so important for Buck to hear it said, in unmistakable words, that their attraction is mutual, to hear French’s confession, with concrete reasons to anchor him, tethering them together like the two bracelets that are now tied to each other’s wrists.

Sure…there are more things the evening will bring, and Buck will think of them fondly in different ways. But it is this moment, wrapped up in words, this confession of unity and companionship, sealed with a kiss that skitters over his skin, promising desire, it is This Moment that will become significant to Buck.

In this moment, Buck feels that every little thing will be ok.

He is too naive to see how much French idealizes him. He is too in love to comprehend how French expects him to save him. And even if he did, he is too young to realize he couldn’t even if he tried. Some things in life aren’t meant to be fixed, they can only be endured. The depth of pain that is implied in such a reality is something neither boy has yet to truly face, just like neither of them has yet to truly understand the depths of his own inner strength.

Believing they have all the time in the world, Buck lets the butterflies in his chest swell up and soar out through his smile. With his free hand, he cups French’s perfect face, caressing his flawless skin. Emboldened by the last moments, he rocks forward and runs his fingers around French’s ear to the back of his neck, nails against scalp, fingertips running through hair. They are so close now. He feels the tangles in his gut tie themselves into tighter knots. He feels his molten core run liquid and hot. He almost kisses French’s crown, but his sense of duty wins out, and he smiles instead, presses their foreheads together and says, "Finish your homework while I find some music."

Quickly, before he can change his mind, he climbs up onto the bed, nestling himself into French’s pillow. He flips through his music library, picking out perfect little songs destined to become infused with feelings of intimacy and tenderness from the night ahead. It is a playlist that will ground them, that will bring them back to these moments time and again, a soundtrack to sustain them both for years to come. And he waits for French to join him.

The touch is laden with romance. There is a definite moment of palpable tension, the prelude of a kiss. Then the moment passes. Buck pulls away and disappears onto the bed, leaving French in awe. Why are some people such naturals at letting others in, graduating from friendship to intimacy like a river flows into the sea? Buck’s open heart is another thing to admire, considering his own has long since been closed off.

French has been romantic before, but never with genuine intention. The object wasn’t to form a bond or partnership with another; it was to gain status by giving and receiving pleasure. He wasn’t promiscuous like Steve, covering the fact that he actually wants affection. Rather, French knew what had to be done to impress and obtain girls, like he knew how to score an A on a test. This made it easy but inauthentic, which is why any relationships he’d had were short lived. At a certain point he gave up pursuing girls, understanding that love– however skewed his definition of it was– could not be a priority. Not like getting out of here.

Girls saw it, too. They weren’t a priority to French, who gained a reputation early in high school of being the hot, emotionally unavailable jock. By senior year most girls had given up. Except the one at the party, who wanted to disprove an ever popular rumor borne of resentment: Alfonso Sosa is gay.

Whatever his apparent sexuality, the personal realization of his attraction to Buck is profound. It is authentic, growing from a friendship like he has never known. Before Buck, true interpersonal connection seemed not only trivial but not meant for him. Much like the life he fights so hard to excel at, to believe is something he can beat. Buck can help him beat it. French is sure of this– it’s yet another thing that sets him apart, places him on a pedestal.

The music touches French instantly; it’s so different from his own. Soft melodies, trickling notes from piano and guitar, percussion that feels not like a bang but a brushstroke. The vocals are dreamy, ethereal. So is the boy behind him on the bed. It inspires him to dive back into his homework, which he finishes quickly.

Once French leaves to go to the bathroom, Buck slips off the bed to look at himself in the dresser mirror. It is strange seeing his body in French’s clothes. Strange, but good. He feels like the clothes mark him as French’s, and he likes it.

He hears water splashing against the sink. French is brushing his teeth. Buck worries, is his own breath ok? The Altoids tin on the dresser catches his eye, and course French won’t mind if he takes a mint, but when he pops open the lid, he freezes.

There are no mints inside. This is French’s stash.

Buck has been loopy with emotion, riding on waves of feeling, and the handful of hard truth that he is faced with in this moment pulls him right back to reality.

He pokes his finger around in the assortment of drugs. Some he recognizes. Some he does not.

Of course he knows that French uses. They both do. That’s what brought them to the abandoned house in the first place: to buy from Steve. Buck closes the tin and sets it back on the dresser, noticing a lingering bit of powder that French missed when he cleaned up earlier. Buck realizes: French has probably used tonight.

Buck closes his eyes, runs the beads from his bracelet through his fingers, trying to steady himself. What must French be feeling? How much pressure must he be under? How much pain must he be in?

Buck does not feel pity for French. No. He feels an ache, an ache to curl up into French and experience his pain with him, to hold the pain in one place, and, in so doing, somehow help to hold French together.

But he has never loved anyone like this, has never ached for anyone like this, has never wanted anyone like this. He thinks of his own reasons for using drugs: his need to numb the pain when it gets too bad, his fears of falling apart,his feelings of being trapped. And yet, here he is, running into French’s pain with eyes wide open. How can that be? How can his own pain be so debilitating, while French’s pain opens up unexpected depths of empathy and nurturing?

Once French's teeth are brushed and his bedroom is softly lit by the bedside lamp, he stalls. It seems the entire night was moving toward this difficult decision. Whether or not to physically sleep with Buck. He’s only ever laid with girls to enjoy their bodies. Never boys, to enjoy their souls. What’s the right move?

Setting the cheap digital alarm clock he bought Sunday night buys him time. "I’m getting up at six. You can stay asleep until seven if you want." He thinks of his morning routine, when he can steal a free moment for himself. "I’ll wake you up so you can get ready while I get Carlos and Adrien on the bus. Then we can stop by your house and head off."

The alarm is set. There’s nothing left to do but choose. Sleep on the floor and give Buck the bed, or sleep with him, as in his fantasy, with their legs all tangled up. French knows which one sounds better. When he thinks of taking Buck into his arms again there is a flutter inside. Still, it’s just so different from anything he’s used to. Breaking routine or feeling out of control can majorly trigger French. Buck is safe, though. He has to remind himself of that a thousand times.

Buck is safe, and French is allowed to have him.

He tries to play off the nervous smile on his face.

"I don’t know about you, but I’m getting under the covers. You’re welcome to join."

French is inviting him to bed. In a way, the promise of pleasure scares Buck in ways pain does not. Pain is familiar. Loneliness is familiar. But companionship?

He looks at French with a sober mind. What if Buck hurts him? What if Buck only complicates his life? What if Buck can’t give anything back?

But no. That is fear talking. He loves French, and if he can’t hold onto that anchor, then he can’t hold onto anything. He doesn’t really understand how to do this, how to be a partner, how to share life with someone, but he wants to. He knows French’s pain, and he wants to share it anyways. He wants to protect him, wants to nurture him, wants to believe in him…and he wants French to do those same things for him in return.

"Yes. I want to join you, but…" he considers not saying the next thing, even though he knows he must. He pauses to choose his words carefully, "I’ve never done any of this with anyone before." He smiles, nervously, "I’m not really sure how… I’m not sure what to do."

He stands in the middle of the bedroom, earnest with affection, hoping French will be kind, hoping he will want to be with Buck enough to be patient with his innocence, hoping he will take his hand and tell him what to do next, hoping that their broken bits and pieces fit into each other’s shattered souls, and that they can learn how to hold each other together.

"All I know is that…" he pauses, blushes, almost too shy to return French’s gaze, "I want you."

French steps out of his flannel pants, knowing it’ll get too hot sharing a bed. He pulls back the covers and lays down. Then he meets Buck’s eyes just in time to discover something he’s never considered.

Buck is a virgin. An unequivocal, innocent virgin.

This fact rings loud and obvious through French’s fuzzy head. Even high, he knows what a line like “I’ve never done this before” implies. Or maybe it’s because he’s high that he’s eagerly reading it that way.

Any teenage boy would read it as an invitation, right? Besides, the two have already admitted they want each other. French can be trusted with this. He has the advantage of knowing how Buck’s body works; he has touched and worked these same parts on girls before.

He’s already imagining the ways in which he will hold Buck’s body, discover this delicacy lost beneath baggy clothes. He’s envisioning pressing the heat of himself against the other, how much pressure and friction to provide.

His mind and body hum with anticipation. Being physical with someone he likes hasn’t been a possibility in so long. Saturday doesn’t count; he was touched without conscious consent by a girl he doesn’t know. It left him with marks and the lingering scent of shame. This will be different. With Buck, everything is different.

French cherishes him, yearns more with each passing moment to make him happy, whole. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but French has been built up by Buck all night. Daring, he believes he’s capable of nearly anything. In this case, giving pleasure, which he fully intends to do.

His grin is mellow and reassuring, tailored by the warm hands of Xanax and finally feeling cared for by another. French reaches out, accepting the invitation. "It’s okay. You’re with me. Come here."

Buck notices everything. This is always true. He is alert to everything in his surroundings, but, when it comes to Alfonso Sosa, he is even more aware. It is like he is tuned into French’s radio frequency and picks up on even the most subtle of clues. The fact that he cares for French, that he is tethered so deeply to him, it broadens Buck’s ability to empathize with things French might be thinking or feeling.

But this entire day is overflowing with new experiences. Buck is not engaging as an observer, but as a participant. He does not have to use his observation or imagination, but he’s being inundated with words and feelings and touch. French is opening up his life to him, is opening up his heart and his home and now even his bed. And Buck’s already hardwired powers of empathy are going into a frenzy to process all of the new stimulation coming in through his five senses.

French slips out of his pants, and Buck can’t help but notice his enviably muscular legs, building up to the cotton fabric of his boxers, the way the cloth stretches over his hefty ass as he crawls into bed.

It is a really nice ass. Buck feels himself flush at the thought. French is thick where Buck is thin, he is strong where Buck is delicate. He has the unmistakably attractive body of a boy, while Buck’s feelings about his own body are detached and confused at best. What has he gotten himself into? He’s never touched anyone…anywhere…never held hands…never nuzzled his nose into someone’s neck…never kissed…

When French beckons to him, he swallows his nerves and slips his legs under the covers, slouching next to French. He curls and uncurls his toes between the cool sheets. Buck breathes in a huff of air. It smells like French, like laundry detergent and something else, something like moss or bark, something Buck can’t identify but that he recognizes as identifiable to this boy who is now inches away from him, this boy to whom he wants to love with his entire heart.

Bucks feels a thrum of contentment mixed with desire running through his body. In this moment his insides are running wild with stimulation and hormones, but he feels that his actions are deliberate: he is intentionally sharing his heart with French, and he is basking in French’s reciprocation. He is nervous, but he feels safe. "Nobody I’ve liked has ever wanted me to be close to them before. Nobody I’ve liked has ever liked me back. It’s kind of baffling, really, that you do." Buck laughs, "I keep expecting you to change your mind or I expect to wake up and realize that this whole evening has just been a dream."

"I like you, and I want you to know it. Carry it with you when I’m not around." French shakes the bracelet on his right wrist, reminding Buck there’s a physical totem tying them together now. "Honestly, it feels good to say out loud. I’m not sure how long it’s been there or what started it, but I like you."

Propped up by pillows and laying back, French thinks of all the ways he can lean over, put his lips to Buck’s skin, reach out and touch him, run his fingertips from shoulder to waist to hips. Thighs. What is the most natural way to do this? How can he introduce Buck to being intimate without making him uncomfortable?

By being comfortable himself. By taking this slowly, because Buck isn’t some conquest that’ll get the guys to stop cracking faggot jokes on him. He’s not a piece of tail that will look good at the school dance and never tap into his internal reservoir. Buck is porcelain with a voice of molten gold; he has managed to not only tap into French’s reservoir, but to own it. "Let me show you it’s not a dream."

French rests a hand on Buck’s shoulder and guides him closer.

His words and touch are soothing. Buck lays down, curling up into his embrace, his head resting perfectly in the nook of French’s shoulder. His hand rests on French’s chest, above his heart. Without even thinking, his leg curls up and wraps around French’s own. It seems appropriate, all of it, the way their bodies fit together.

He is in the arms of a boy who sees him, knows him, and loves him for his invisible self.

He doesn’t speak. Instead, he listens to the rhythm of French’s breathing, feels his chest steadily rise and fall, wonders: if he pressed his hand close enough, could he feel the beating of his heart?

For the first time since they sat in the abandoned house, listening to OA share her story, Buck feels like he belongs. But this is something even deeper than that: he not only belongs in this space, but now he belongs to someone, to French. With that there comes a sense of peace and security that Buck has been starving for for so long.

One arm is wound securely around Buck’s shoulders. French plays with the boy’s bristly hair, glancing down in disbelief. This is real. They are pressed against each other, Buck’s head is on his chest. This is actually happening.

One small thigh is draped over his own. His free hand moves under the blankets, finger tips curl around Buck’s thigh. There is little meat there; French could easily touch thumbs together if he framed the upper leg with his hands. It’s all the parts he’s familiar with from being with girls, but Buck is a boy. Meaning this body half on top of him is a boy’s, even if it excites him the way a girl’s would. He doesn’t want to perseverate on that, though. Instead, he seeks to explore.

Cozy in French’s arms, Buck curls into him affectionately as he plays with his hair. He feels thick and warm as French’s hand slides up his thigh to his hips. Loopy, even. Content enough to sleep.

Eagerly French's hand rides up along the outline of Buck’s hip. His thumb brushes fabric aside and finds skin. Smooth, warm. Slowly his hand glides along, finds the indent of Buck’s waist, the side of his ribcage. His thumb gently traces the contour, feeling bones beneath skin. Everything about Buck is delicate, small. Precious. He silently vows to never hurt him again. Breaking this boy would, in turn, break himself.

It doesn’t occur to him that he is very close to Buck’s bare chest.

The moment French slips under his shirt and breaks contact with Buck’s skin, something triggers inside of of him. He freezes. Eyes wide, his nerves are brittle and raw and he’s aware of every movement of French’s fingers as if the touch is happening in slow motion, to someone else, on a video feed that Buck is watching.

Only it isn’t happening to someone else. It is happening to him. And it is happening fast, too fast for him to comprehend what he is feeling or why he is feeling it. His blood runs cold, his bones feel hollow, his fears well up, flash warnings, urging him to DO SOMETHING.

But he can’t. He should say, “Stop,” or even just mumble French’s name, but he physically can’t. He tries, and his mouth isn’t working.

Fingers travel further up Buck’s torso, past his ribs, dangerously close to his…his…he can’t even think the word…he can’t face the reality that he spends so much effort suppressing on his own chest…

His hand flies from French’s heart directly to his hand, not pulling French away, but pushing his palm ever-so-lightly in place, keeping his hand from traveling any closer.

Twisted around, exposed, Buck’s heart is pounding, his breath is uneven, his eyes averted, but wide. He doesn’t know what is happening. He isn’t sure what he’s feeling. Dread pours over him, incapacitating him. He doesn’t know what’s wrong. He doesn’t know what’s wrong. He doesn’t know what’s wrong.

A sharp intake of breath is mistaken as a sign of pleasure. The sudden sensation of a hand on his makes French sure. He laces their fingers, lifts their hands, meets Buck’s pale skin with a kiss. Drinks it in.

 

The idea of Buck enjoying his touch is enough to build pressure below. French shifts, pulls his arm free and rolls Buck onto his back. The he straddles one matchstick leg with two knees.

Unconsciously he settles weight onto the boy, fluidly leaning down to plant soft kisses on open skin. First, the forehead. Lightly. Then the nose, barely detectable. Buck’s lips, a feather stroke. Then his neck, with passion. His collarbone. As this happens the pressure builds, knocking against Buck’s thigh unintentionally. French isn’t aware of it; he isn’t aware of much, so entranced by everything about this boy.

His body is delectable. French wants to taste every inch.

Not like this.

French links fingers and pulls Buck’s arm above his head. Even though his shirt is in place, it leaves his chest feeling exposed. Buck is mortified. Too scared to speak. Too scared to move. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what is happening. He’s shutting down, going numb, terror blanking out his mind.

Not like this.

French’s kisses break through his stupor. They feel like knives against his skin. With each contact, Buck is ripped back to consciousness, wincing at his spiraling reality. He feels like he is not his own.

Not like this.

His Love, his heart and soul, Alfonso Sosa, he is here, pressed up against Buck. The sheer power of his strength and weight is intimidating. In other circumstances it might make Buck feel safe, but right now all he feels is trapped. French is smothering his neck, his body is pressed up against him, sliding over him. He wants to pull his knees up to his chest, to curl up into the fetal position, but he can’t. French is pinning him down. Buck tries wriggling out, but it’s no use.

He’s so small he feels like he could disappear. He wants to. He wants to disappear. He wants to scream. He wants to not be anything at all.

But all he can manage is to say, "Stop."

 

As soon as it’s uttered French pulls away. He tries to read Buck’s face, but there’s no time. The boy wriggles, causing French to really sit back on his heels. Buck uses the free space to scramble away, and then he sits, hugging himself. Shaking.

Overloaded, overstimulated, he twists out of French’s grasp, and sits up, pulling his knees up to his chest. He is not speaking aloud, but he carries a refrain in his mind, trying to self-soothe.

_everything is fine_   
_everything is fine_   
_everything is fine_   
_everything is fine_

Except everything is not fine. He can’t even cry. He starts shaking. He doesn’t know what to do with his body. He wants to get away from it. He wants to get away. He’s trapped, exposed, his heart feels like it’s torn open and bleeding out.

He’s too broken to be loved.

Sheer confusion terrorizes French. What happened? What’s wrong? What did he do wrong?

Then it’s obvious, as it should have been at the start. He overwhelmed Buck, moved too fast. Scared him.

He thinks of Saturday, of being touched heavily– bruised– by a stranger he didn’t want. There was no consent, though he was too drunk to resist the temptation of physical contact. Just because physical contact feels nice doesn’t mean it’s wanted. If French hadn’t been in a partial blackout at that point he definitely would have told her no.

Whatever the specifics, it’s horrible to think he’s brought up those feelings of discomfort in Buck, exacerbated by the fact that he’s a virgin. For cisgendered guys being physical for the first time isn’t awkward and encumbered like it is for girls. Boys aren’t taught to be ashamed of their bodies, what they’re designed to do.

Buck doesn’t have the luxury of confidence, entitlement. As a boy whose body is a literal betrayal to him, he was taught and is still facing the idea that not only his body but his existence as a whole is something to feel shame over.

French isn’t ignorant to it. When Buck was the first trans high schooler last year, he did research. He didn’t know Buck, but he’d never been exposed to any gender variance. Naturally, he wanted to know. Unlike the idiots he played lacrosse with, or the girls who whispered that the fresh meat on the swim team was just a dyke with penis envy, French read about the basics of gender and learned about being assigned female at birth, binding, and suicide rates.

Binding. Binding! Buck’s torso had been bare; he’d taken his binder off because it was unhealthy to sleep with. And French, being eager and blowing through yellow lights, had skimmed his hand near Buck’s naked chest.

How could he be so stupid? He feels guilty, embarrassed. Mortified. He never wanted to upset Buck or jeopardize what they have, and yet he has. In so many ways. In one night.

How could they be together when French breaks everything he loves?

Sitting at the foot of the bed with his body facing Buck’s, he wonders how to make this right. Every shred of him wants to close the distance between them, wrap Buck in his arms as he did earlier and assure him it’s alright.

But French is afraid to touch him, even though he can see the boy shaking. It hurts to watch, it hurts to think advancing in any way might send Buck further into panic.

Every last lick of excitement has drained from him. Angry with himself, he sighs and rubs his face. After a moment of collecting his thoughts, French speaks, "Buck, I’m sorry. I know it won’t mean much, but I am. I thought…" To dare say _“I thought you wanted it”_ would be disgustingly entitled. He refrains. "You did nothing wrong. You’re safe, it’s over. I’m never going to touch you without permission again. Only how you want, if you want. You’re in control here. Okay?"

For a few slow breaths he listens and searches Buck to see if he has calmed down at all. It’s an awful feeling, to see such a beautiful person so upset. Destroyed at the uncareful hands of someone who intended only to love. Why doesn’t French know how to love?

"I’m here for you. Whatever you need. And I’m listening, really listening. Talk to me. What’s going on inside right now?" He hopes like hell he can fix it.

"I hate this. I hate this. I hate that I’m like this. That I’m like… this…" Buck shakes his arms away from his body like he’s trying to shake them off, pounds his chest, just once, before he deflates. He can’t get away from it. Can’t get away from the colossal joke that he was born with: the body of a girl. He has the body of a girl. A girl. He can’t escape it. And in this moment he can’t ignore it, can’t distract himself with other people’s problems or stories or needs. In this moment: he is the problem. He feels every inch of his pathetic existence and is met with nothing but self loathing.

His body is disgusting to him. He wants to rip off his skin, gouge out his eyes. But that would make a mess. Too much of a mess. He’s already too much of a mess, too much of a burden.

Buck looks up into French’s worried eyes, and it cuts him open. This is not what he wants. Why did he have to ruin a perfect moment? Why does he have to be so broken? Why does he have to be just one more problem in French’s life? He wants to give to French. He just wants to love him, to be a breath of fresh air, sweetness, goodness…and instead he is…this…monster. This pathetic horrible creature that shrivels up and dies at the first moment of intimacy.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He starts crying, shaking his head. "I don’t want you to never touch me, to never kiss me." He stifles a small sob. "I don’t want you to ask _permission_." He speaks this last word with venom. "I don’t want…" Suddenly he isn’t sure. He is facing the deepest wound of his existence, an ache he buries deep inside and carries around, limping like a wild animal. And now it’s out on the open. Now it is unmistakable, and he is overcome at the horror of his emotional handicap. "I don’t want you to have to worry ab-bout…" His limbs are shaking worse and worse. His teeth start chattering, interfering with his words. "I… I don’t… I don’t want t-t-to be in control. I don’t want… I don’t want to be me. Oh my God. I’m so s-s-sorry. I’m so sorry…" Hands in his hair, doubled over, he barely is able to utter the last words before he collapses into sobs, "I’m so sorry I’m a b-b-boy…"

Fists thump bone, making a solid thud that feels like a dagger being thrust into his gut. Buck can’t do this. He can’t hurt himself. French is terrified that’s what will happen, that his uncareful hands have broken this boy into pieces that can’t be recovered. Selfishly he sought pleasure, thinking he could provide much of the same. Instead he shattered porcelain and spilled the contents: ribbons of silk that were woven with light and glittering gold. They were supposed to be sewn into a garment that would keep the soul housed within this fragile body warm and confident. Safe.

The contents don’t retain their shape, though. As Buck breaks open they hit the air, transforming into nightmare tools of self-torment. Spilled silk turns to rope, light to darkness, glittering gold to black and shining poison. French is witness to this, and it’s a revelation. What’s inside of Buck is unexpected. It mirrors his own hidden pain. Seeing this is sacrilegious, a secret that should never be exposed.

Yet the rope has tied him to the spot, the poison a streak on the dagger. Each ragged breath Buck forces himself to take pushes the blade deeper. When their eyes meet, the blade turns. When Buck speaks, it slashes sideways, and at the first stifled sob it’s drawn out, eviscerating French completely. His insides splash out, their pain a mass of poison, blood and rope on the bed. Encompassed by darkness, so thick he cannot see.

He can’t save himself. He can’t save himself from seeing this. He can’t save Buck from being this. And Buck doesn’t want to be anything at all. French never knew this, never expected it, because Buck is always whole enough to swallow everyone else’s pain. Apparently to do this he pays a price: he also swallows his own.

And he’s choking on it.

French shattered this boy and now bleeds with him. He caused this, he needs to fix this. But there’s no solution. A broken car part can be replaced. A broken appliance can be re-bought. A broken bone can be reset, but a broken soul? It can only be held by another of its kind and mended slowly with time and love.

Can French offer love? He’s always wanted to, but situations have shown him he isn’t capable of honestly opening up. Unlike Buck, the harbor, French is a ship whose captain claims there’s no rough water. Everyone believes until they feel the ship rock unnaturally beneath them, revealing the captain as a liar and a sham. Like Saturday night, when French heard his so called friends talking about him. They knew what he was always trying to hide. He’s a cold-blooded mess.

If he doesn’t possess an ability to be sincere in what he does– to do anything other than survive with desperation and cardboard walls– he will never be able to love another. Heal another.

Yet there’s no way he can sit here and witness the vicious mauling of a boy without doing something. Buck is too beautiful, even bound in rope and dripping poison. Buck is too bright, even covered in a darkness that threatens to suck him dry and leave his little corpse behind as a warning of what can happen if people aren’t careful.

French needs to be more careful.

Buck is shaking, lost. French needs to reach out, shelter him from the sadness. He moves across the bed and sits right beside his friend with his back pressed up against the pillows. He’s about to envelope Buck when he remembers his touch caused this. What if it makes things worse? French can’t risk it. He won’t risk it. Then what can he do to help? Buck is sobbing so hard it’s physically sickening to listen to.

French starts to speak, hardly able to hear his own words. They’re all he has to offer, though. A doorway, maybe, into something more. "I wish it were easier, Buck. I wish I could promise you it gets better, but I can’t. Because it hasn’t for me yet, and I’m dealing with only half of what you are. Or maybe we’re dealing with two sides of the same coin. Your body, my circumstances. We both want to escape. Sometimes it feels like we never will. But the way you believe in me, I believe in you. We can survive this."

"You don’t have to be sorry. You’re not a freak, you’re not a burden. You’re an angel. If I could absorb your pain until you couldn’t feel it anymore, I would. I’d hold you until it all disappeared, even if it killed me. And, if you’d let me– Buck, if you can hear me– I’d like to try."

There is a moment, when Buck stops talking, where the only thing he can feel is his world rending in two. With his greatest fear realized- that his identity would keep him from ever having the companionship that he craves- he feels hopeless, helpless. For a moment, Buck faces his deepest turmoil, and he loses. It kills him. His heart is bleeding out, his tears pouring, while he huddles up, a pile of skin and bones on French’s bed.

He is adrift on a sea of nothingness, capsized, swallowed by darkness. He can’t stop the shaking. He can’t form thoughts into words. He is nothing but his pain.

Then the moment passes.

The mattress shifts as French moves close. And then he speaks, words cast out into the void, difficult words, words that stand up against harsh truths, words that will not dissipate easily at the first sign of struggle.

There is no port for either of them to rest. There is only choppy waters and endless night. But here they are, in the middle of an ocean, struggling not to drown, and they found each other.

French’s words are like ropes cast out into the night, wrapping around Buck’s hull and tethering them together. There are no anchors this far out in the dark, there is no end to the depths surrounding them, but here they are, anyways, two ships in the night, two broken vessels brought together by lamplight and luck. Here they are: together.

Never before has Buck felt secure enough to open up his haunted underbelly and release his demons into the night, but here, bobbing alongside French, bound and bleeding into each other’s wounds, he believes: it will be ok, every little thing will be ok.

Buck crawls into French’s lap and huddles against his chest. Immediately French wraps his arms around him, securing him, holding him together. Met with such tender affection, Buck feels safe enough to fall apart. So he does. If his body was shaking before, it is shaking even more now. Sobbing, smothering his sobs into French’s chest, he is filled with perfect sadness, and he is unafraid.

He cries over the little girl he once was that he will never be again.

He cries over the man he knows he can never fully become.

He cries over his loneliness, over his pain, over the struggle he faces every day to simply exist as a broken person, in a broken body, in a broken world.

As the sadness runs its course, spilling out into the nothingness, Buck senses a new strength growing inside of him. He snuggles into French, returning the affectionate embrace he has been using to hold him together. Locked together, souls colliding, breaths synching into one rhythm, Buck feels…he feels…not complete, but he feels…

Buck.

He feels like Buck.

In French’s care, he finds the courage to open up his sails a little more, to feel the mystery of being an unknown, to float unanchored under the stars.

And, in with an angel in his arms, French finds a reason to keep afloat, at least untill dawn.

 


End file.
